


Even Drunk I am Caught off Guard by The Way I Remain Intoxicated by You

by adashofblue



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Drinking, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, For Whom The Bell Tolls Spoilers, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Jealous John, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Mary Morstan, Not Beta Read, POV John Watson, Past Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes's Purple Shirt of Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-04-11 12:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21547720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adashofblue/pseuds/adashofblue
Summary: There’s a blur of mediocre beer in tall lab glasses and loud music and morning hangovers. But there’s part of the mess of memory that no amount of inebriation could make the man forget. John’s hand, sliding onto Sherlock’s knee. The contact brief but far from innocent. The arch in the other’s brow, the slight smile on his lips. The words shaped by them."I don’t mind."Or; Attempt two of stag night, but they don't get absolutely shit-faced and come to terms with their mutual feelings... Sort of.Only spoilers for the actual show is for s03e02 The Sign Of Three, and it's literally just about their night of bar hopping.[Warning!! Contains critical spoilers for Ernest Hemingway's For Whom The Bell Tolls because Sherlock is a dick and spoils it for John.]Happy reading!
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 107





	Even Drunk I am Caught off Guard by The Way I Remain Intoxicated by You

It’s a quiet evening. Nursing a cuppa of blended tea, John is content with a book perched on his knee in his armchair. He can hear the detective out and about in the flat, flashing from room to room to gather something; or simply to pace, Watson isn’t intrigued enough to check. His copy of ‘for whom the bell tolls’ is far more to his flavor, especially after a week of ceaseless cases. He hasn’t seen this many corpses these last 7 days since the second anglo-Afghan war.

If as much as one more case pops up, just _one_, John will gladly take a night alone in the flat over any more running, stressing and dealing with Sherlock’s lengthy deductions.

“John.”

Of course. When that baritone voice fills the room, the blogger is hardly surprised. Slowly, he puts his book down, glaring up at the curly-haired sleuth with a pinched brow. “Sherlock, if you’ve got another bloody case, I’m not interested-”

But he trails off his sentence, because Sherlock is hardly dressed for business. No, but instead, the man’s clad in a pair of black, ripped skinny jeans and polished, 1-inch heel boots. John swallows hard, eyes scanning up the detective’s slim body and his chest burning in a far-too familiar way.

_Sherlock is wearing the purple shirt._ Yes, _the_ purple shirt. The purple shirt that fits the man like a second skin, following every curve of his arms and torso and that’s always left open at two buttons; displaying creamy, pale skin that holds Watson’s wide eyes just a second too long. He clears his throat, looking up at Sherlock’s face instead, which is trained in an amused expression. “As you might’ve figured out, we’re not going on a case.”

“Yeah, right, no, I got that... Hold on, _we?”_ John expertly stutters out and is met with a rolling of mottled eyes.

“Yes, _we_. Your intellect has rather faltered after our busy week, hasn’t it?”

_That is hardly going to convince me to join you in your antics tonight, Genius._

John shoots back: "Thanks", combining his biting sarcasm with a brief, clearly fake smile and the detective exhales a sigh.

The _audacity_ of this man…

“Whatever it is, I’m quite busy.”

“With _what?"_ demands the detective, continuing before John can flash him the book in his lap in response. “Oh please, you can hardly call _that_ entertainment. Anselmo dies, they successfully blow up the bridge but Robert gets injured and forces the band to go on without him. How’s that for a plot ending?”

Okay, that does it!

John’s appetite for reading is lost with whatever patience he had left, and he tosses the book to the other side of the room, standing up to leave. “Brilliant, Sherlock, just _brilliant!_ How come you need to spoil everything for me? Hmm?” he asks, genuinely curious, but none of his anger any less present.

He turns around to look at the sleuth when he reaches the doorframe, and the frown taking place on sculpted features is a welcome sight.

So Sherlock _can_ feel sympathy, after all. “I haven’t… actually read the book, I’m sure that’s not…” he tries. It’s hushed, ashamed, but John laughs at his attempt of making amends.

“Oh don’t flatter yourself, _of course_ it is! I don’t need to check to know that you are right. But maybe I wanted to figure it out myself.”

A nod.

“Yes, I… I realize that now. Forgive me.”

And that softens John’s expression, makes him take a step back into the room. The detective is getting better at this, _feelings_. The progress is quite slow, but progress nonetheless. And John _is_ curious about what Sherlock has in mind for the evening. So he indulges him, something he think he'll definitely regret later. “Come on then, where are you dragging me off to?”

“Oh, I think you’ll like it. You see, it involves drinks and spending time with me. So naturally, your answer is yes.”

_Cocky bastard._ His words _does_ make a smile pull at John’s lips, but it also makes him think back on the last time they were out drinking.

_There’s a blur of mediocre beer in tall lab glasses and loud music and morning hangovers. But there’s part of the mess of memory that no amount of inebriation could make the man forget. John’s hand, sliding onto Sherlock’s knee; the contact brief but far from innocent. The arch in the other’s brow, the slight smile on his lips. The words shaped by them. "I don’t mind."_

Oh, that makes him a bit hot under the collar. And he’s only got himself to blame for it. But Watson sighs, well aware he’ll cave sooner or later anyway. Besides, while part of him is hesitant to accept the proposal (because drinking is not his forté and he’s not quite certain he’ll be able to hold back if his mind settles on making a move on the detective), part of him wants precisely _that_ to happen. Part of him craves it, is _starving_ for it. So he wets his lips, aware of his hitched breathing, and that _Sherlock_ is aware too, and he nods.

“Fine.”

* * *

A wardrobe visit and a cab drive later - for _once_, he’s chosen something other than a jumper to wear -, John finds himself in a booth with an ale and the object of his affection across him, who’s staring intensely at him. It makes him feel a bit fidgety. “What?”

“I'm trying to come up with a conversation topic. Isn’t that what people do while spending time together?”

John tries not to stumble on that choice of words, swallowing down the mouthful of alcohol he has in his mouth to prevent himself from choking on it. At least Sherlock didn’t refer to it as a _‘date’, _like he did that one time. Although something alarming in John tells him that he would hardly mind, were the detective to do that again. “Well, yeah, but we, you and I, are hardly ordinary people, are we?” he shoots.

Sherlock looks surprised with the compliment, wide eyes blinking a couple of times as though it would help him wrap his head around it better. He then looks away, his cheeks a hue darker than usual. “I suppose we aren’t.”

“Right. So you don’t have to try so hard. Just ask what’s on your mind,” he suggests, but he realizes that he really shouldn’t have, when Sherlock does ask what has apparently been on his mind. “It’s been some time since you last went out to see… Sarah, was it?”

This time, John _does_ choke on his beverage. He really shouldn’t be drinking around Sherlock at all. And besides, _Sarah? Really?_ Sherlock isn’t that daft, he knows John has had others after her. But John decides to humor him, if just this once. “Sarah was the doctor, remember? Back with the case of ‘the blind banker’?”

“Hm.”

“I haven’t really been in a serious relationship since Jeanette,” he replies, eyes averted from the detective.

Ah, yes, Jeanette. _‘you’re a great boyfriend, and Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man’_\- Jeanette, to be specific. John has had a hard time getting her words out of his head ever since she spoke them.

Sherlock looks lost. Has he even touched his drink? “Why?” he asks.

And to that, Watson gives him a knowing look.

Oblivious to his own uncharacteristically dumb question, Sherlock defends himself with a: “What?”

“You can figure it out yourself,” says John. Because Sherlock definitely _can_.

It’s not easy to sustain a relationship with anyone with _this_ guy for a flatmate. And it's even harder when you’re trying to deal with _being in love_ with said flatmate. But John doesn’t say that.

“Well, _why?_”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

John’s mocking him now, but the sleuth only scowls back at him, not taking the sarcasm in for account. He shifts in his seat. “Not _that!_ Why as in why aren’t you-… in a relationship, that is? What has changed?”

His voice is higher, less steady than usual. John can taste pleading, somewhere, too. He bites back _‘you have’_ and takes another, long sip of his beer. He’s gonna need plenty more if he’s to confess his fondness for Sherlock Holmes.

Willing the warmth on his cheeks to go away, John tries for a reassuring smile. But alas, he only manages half-hearted. “Nothing. Just taking a break from dating, is all.”

It comes out more collected than the blond _feels_, which he’s thankful for. Sherlock studies him silently, not entirely satisfied but apparently done with the conversation for the moment. He hops up from the booth, not looking at John when he grabs their glasses and murmurs a quick: "I’ll get the next round," before popping off to the bar.

John both marvels at and simultaneously _loathes_ the fact that Sherlock’s glass was only half-empty when he left their booth.

* * *

John realizes too late that a noisy night club was not the best choice for drinking while trying to have a conversation. He and his companion stand all cramped up against a small, round bar table, trying to speed up the process of emptying their glasses. They would’ve left already, but the policy is no drinks outside the bar, and John doesn’t fancy ending up in the bullpen over some alcohol.

And actually, despite the area being crowded and loud and permeating a scent of sweat and booze, Watson finds comfort in standing so close to the tall detective, who has to lean in and murmur into his ear when he wants something.

“That one over there, gold chain and leather vest. Wanted drug lord, Franklin Algarotti, more internationally known as The Prophet. He’s got at least three henchmen here and has already sold to tens of people in this very club,” Sherlock rasps in John’s ear, his breath hot against his skin.

John shudders at the sensation, eyes slipping shut. But he inhales sharply when he can feel that Sherlock is about to leave to take care of the culprit he had discovered in the club, and grabbing ahold of his wrist, John yanks him down so he can hiss into his ear in return.

“No, listen, Sherlock, you are _not_ doing this tonight! We’ve been on cases all week, give it a rest.”

“But-”

A weak attempt, really, not all that insistent. Sherlock could’ve easily shrugged John's hand off and gone anyway if he wanted to, John knows this. “You feel like leaving me here, then?”

Surprisingly, that holds the detective down, makes him turn around to their table again.

“Good. Now, please, you must tire of making deductions, too. So leave it be for a moment, drink some more.”

Sherlock holds his gaze - multicolored eyes blinking slowly at John through long lashes in the flashing disco-lights - before taking the blogger’s advice, swiping a substantial sip from his glass. John nods. Sherlock smiles.

“... Thank you.”

* * *

There's a word for what they’re doing but that John hasn’t thought about until now. They're _bar hopping_. This is their third stop, and now they’re in a smaller, more homely space. A ‘restaurant-at-day, ‘bar-at-night’ kind of deal; where there are patrons filling up the seats cheering at the television when their team makes a score and clink their glasses together every five minutes. John’s been here a couple of times with Stamford, so it’s by nature more comfortable to walk into. Some familiar blokes recognize him, too, giving him a solid: "Watson!" or just a simple nod. When John has ordered him and the detective a drink each (he’s getting a little wobbly, but it’s all good), he notices Sherlock is particularly quiet. Staring off to nowhere.

“You good?” he asks.

The detective makes a ‘tch’ sound, waving a hand disapprovingly at a group of patrons who’re now chanting their team’s name. “Excessive,” he means.

John glances over at the telly, where the team most patrons here wear the colors of indeed _are_ winning. He chuckles, looks back at Sherlock who clearly can’t see what’s so funny. Bless him.

“I do that with Mike too, when we’re here. It’s fun.”

_“Ffffun?” _spits the taller, incredulous.

“Yes, fun. Like solving a murder.”

“Mmm.”

Sherlock can’t seem to find any flaws in that logic, and goes silent again, sipping his ale with a dull look in his eyes. John shouldn’t be so bummed by the sleuth’s expression, but he is. He pats Sherlock’s shoulder in a ‘cheer up, mate’, the closest to physical contact he’s probably ever going to get with the git, and gestures to their drinks.

“Hey, why don’t we play a game?”

That appears to have sparked an interest, because there’s a twinkle in Sherlock’s eye now, and John helps himself to explain the rules to him.

“That’s it? I say something I have never done and if _you've_ done it, you take a shot? Doesn’t take too much brainpower, does it?” he asks, unimpressed. _That’s the point,_ John thinks. But of course it would seem boring to Sherlock, what wouldn’t? John remains quiet.

“I’ve done most things you could imagine, this hardly seems fair.”

“Or we could always watch the game…”

“No! Don’t you dare!” the detective hisses, much to John’s delight.

He clears his throat, a good starter ready for the man. “All right. I’ll start, show you the ropes. Never have I ever… spied on anyone,” he says, leaning back and awaiting Sherlock to drink.

But the man just stares at him, a mix of belittled and amused showing in his eyes.

“Really? That’s all you’ve got?”

“Well, I thought I’d ease you into it,” is John’s only defense, he’d thought Sherlock would’ve done this one for sure.

“What kind of reprobate creep do you think I am?”

John’s not sure if Sherlock’s genuinely upset, so he tries for the kiss-ass answer.

“A resourceful, dedicated one?”

A laugh bubbles up out of the brunet at that, dark and low. John can’t help the smile that creeps up on his face. So round 1 leaves both parties with full glasses. Swell.

“Nice save," Sherlock says. "I’ll do you one better; never have I ever made a ‘prank call’,” he spells it out quite funnily, as if never having said it aloud before, but nonetheless, John takes down a finger down. Fair's fair.

He swipes his glass, the heat in the whiskey he had ordered coating his throat deliciously. “Touché. You haven't, though, not once?”

“Oh, John, please, don’t ridicule me. I don’t partake in such time-wasting nonsense.”

“Sure, I get it, you’re up and above and all that, but... not even as a child?”

Sherlock gives him a _look._ John swallows. The amount of eye contact he has maintained with the man this evening is more than he has all week, and he’s got to say, he’s not appalled by the change. Quite the opposite, actually. Sherlock’s eyes are a beautiful mixture of cold and sharp and open and lively. A canvas of all the colors and stars in the sky. They are gorgeous, and anyone who would deny this is a downright fool. “Right, okay.”

“Your turn.”

“Hm, yes, hold on…”

* * *

Their speech is more slurred, their questions getting less inventive and coherent with each passing turn. John doesn’t know how long they’re been out drinking, minutes? _Hours?_ All he knows is that he is enjoying himself tremendously, and it seems that even the stiff-neck detective is loosening up. Between the way he keeps stealing looks at the blond (or is that just John’s imagination?), and the way his voice is bubblier, warmer, John’s finally able to muster up the courage he needs for this question.

“Never have I ever… kissed a bloke,” he says, and Sherlock’s brow rises ever so slightly toward his hairline, a barely-there sign of surprise.

Lord, the air in the room even changed, and John’s holding his breath, unable to do else but stare back at the detective while clutching onto his glass. Finally, Sherlock moves, and he drinks from his glass, holding eye contact with the blogger the entire time.

John blinks. “Right. Who- I mean, who was it? Who did you kiss?”, his mouth goes off without permission.

_Bugger_, John curses beneath stuttered breath. Sherlock tuts him, leaning in slightly.

“Dying to know, are you, Watson dear?” the man rasps.

John goes completely red, choking on his own tongue that feels too large for his mouth. Is Sherlock... teasing him? John searches those pretty eyes and can see the playfulness in them, the challenging sparkle hidden beneath. But all he can think is ‘good lord, he has pretty eyes’. “No! No, I mean- you know, I don’t- I _didn’t_-...”

_Brilliant. Exceptional work, John, you’ve truly outdone yourself._

Sherlock shrugs, finally letting up and speaking in hushed tones when he replies. “If you must know, his name is Victor Trevor. He was my flatmate throughout my college years.. and my first love.”

It’s honest, not meant to provoke or brag. Yet John feels funny, something he knows but won’t acknowledge as jealousy building up in his stomach. He nods. “... Have you seen him since?”

“No, and to be perfectly candid, I’m not interested, either. I have… other things on my mind now. Other _people_.”

Oh, it’s all too wonderful to be true. Sherlock stares right into John’s eyes, a clear and open invitation if the blogger has ever seen one. Would he be more carefree, and they weren’t in a packed, sports-themed bar, he would closed the distance between them right now and snog the daylight out of the curly-haired detective. But for now, he sees the opportunity with Sherlock’s arm that’s resting on the bar counter, and he takes a leap of faith, lacing their fingers together. Sherlock stares at their hands, his expression entirely indecipherable. He doesn’t shy away from the touch. He looks back at John, eyes wide and blown and John has never, not _once_, seen him like this before. He prays Sherlock won’t pull away.

And Sherlock doesn’t.


End file.
